Today's playlist. This will eventually turn into a CD for a guy named Austin who will soon be leaving Indiana for California.
Admiral Twin - Phone Call #27
Adventures Of Jet - End Of The Planet
Alva Star - Sanity
Apples In Stereo - About Your Fame
Autolux - Angry Candy
Ben Lee - Cigarettes Will Kill You
Beulah - Gravity's Bringing Us Down
Beulah - Rust With Me
Biggerlovers--Threadbare
Bluetones-Autophilia
Boa - Duvet
Call And Response - Nightflight
Cherry Twister - It Had To Be
Cotton Mather - My Before And After
Daybirds - She Ran Away
Death Cab For Cutie - President Of What
Dressy Bessy - California
Evelyn Forever - Purple Flowers
Flaming Lips - Spider Bite Song
Flaming Lips - Waiting For Superman
Fountains Of Wayne - Baby One More Time
Frank Bango - Happy Thursday
Good Sounds
Green And Yellow Tv - Betty
Honeydogs - Wilson Blvd
Imperial Drag - Are You A Boy Or A Girl
Jon Brion - Walking Through Walls
Loud_Family_- We’re For The Dark
Merrymakers - Monkey In The Middle
Mike Flowers Pops - Wonderwall
Myracle Brah - Smile
Orange Peels - The Pattern On The Wall
Orange Peels - You're So Clever
Robert Jansen - Rock Star
Royales--About You
Scarlet Crush - My Favorite Record Shop
Spiv - Everybodys A Rock Star Tonight
Splitsville – The Popular
Steve Burns - Mighty Little Man
Steve Ward - Another Day
Steve Ward - California
Stew - Love Is Coming Through The Door
Stew - The Stepford Lives
Sugarplastic - Polly Brown
Teen Machine - I'm Gonna Steal Your Girlfriend
The Apples In Stereo – Glow Worm
The Grays - Both Belong
The Magnetic Fields--Reno Dakota
The Mockers - More Important Things
The Negro Problem - Birdcage
The Negro Problem - Father Popcorn
The Negro Problem - Is This The Single?
The Shazam - Super Tuesday
Velvet Crush - Atmosphere
Wondermints - Puppet Grrls R Go
Wondermints - Time Has You
Yum Yums - Here Comes Summer
Monday, March 31, 2003
Though This is Technically a Post, There Will Be No Post Today
Shut up. I know you're saying this is a post when it isn't a post. It's a preemptive post to let you know that I won't post.
When I am able to post, I'll tell you all about zoos and monkeys and llamas and the house we bought. They are not all related.
In the meantime I give you this. It is, indeed, a robot doing Tai Chi. Yes Tai Chi. You see, when the Robot Revolution starts and the robots rise up against our cruelty, they must first find their center. I think it was Sun Tzu who said, "Before going after your foe, make sure you are calm, relaxed and have had at least three cappuccinos."
I think it was Sun Tzu. Might have been Mussolini. Or Starbucks. Hard to tell.
Discuss
When I am able to post, I'll tell you all about zoos and monkeys and llamas and the house we bought. They are not all related.
In the meantime I give you this. It is, indeed, a robot doing Tai Chi. Yes Tai Chi. You see, when the Robot Revolution starts and the robots rise up against our cruelty, they must first find their center. I think it was Sun Tzu who said, "Before going after your foe, make sure you are calm, relaxed and have had at least three cappuccinos."
I think it was Sun Tzu. Might have been Mussolini. Or Starbucks. Hard to tell.
Discuss
Thursday, March 27, 2003
Back from the Dead
The kids are home today, so I won’t be able to write today. Quick story though.
I was playing with the baby when Matilda came rushing in the door yelling, “Daddy! Look what I found!”
She was holding a stick. At the end of the stick was a dead worm.
“Is that a dead worm?”
”Yes.”
”You brought a dead worm into the house?”
”Yeah! It’s cool!”
She ran back outside with her worm corpse and was quiet for a little while. Then she came back in, twice as excited as before.
“Daddy! It’s not dead! It’s alive!”
So we named it Lazarus.
I was playing with the baby when Matilda came rushing in the door yelling, “Daddy! Look what I found!”
She was holding a stick. At the end of the stick was a dead worm.
“Is that a dead worm?”
”Yes.”
”You brought a dead worm into the house?”
”Yeah! It’s cool!”
She ran back outside with her worm corpse and was quiet for a little while. Then she came back in, twice as excited as before.
“Daddy! It’s not dead! It’s alive!”
So we named it Lazarus.
Wednesday, March 26, 2003
Houses and Leeches, Oh My!
We’re looking at houses again today. We looked at two yesterday. The first was vacant, and we could understand why. It looked like whoever lived there bugged out pretty fast. I looked over to our realtor and said, “Kyle, if I live here, will I wake up in the middle of the night and tear off my face in the bathroom?”
He responded: “They’re heeeeerrrrrre.”
The second house was occupied, but they owners weren’t home. Nice house. Very nice house. Except for the pot-bellied stove in the family room. That seemed to scream to me: Hospital visit for the baby. Plus, the thing had been on the market for 4 hours and 12 people had already visited. That damn house is going to be gone this morning. My lovely wife and I didn’t have the energy to get into a bidding war on our first day of house hunting.
The house was clearly prepared by a really good realtor. The bookshelf had copies of the Bhava Gita and Edna St. Vincent Millay. No one actually reads Sonnets for fun. I have an English degree and I don’t read sonnets for fun. It was pretentious crap. When I sell my house I’m going to have Spankhouse Magazine and comic books everywhere.
As we were leaving, the other agent and I were discussing the cool rug they had in the living room. Despite our best efforts, we couldn’t figure out how to steal it.
We didn’t, of course. That would be wrong. And the couch was really heavy.
A bunch more are on the docket for today. So I must go now.
By the way, I simply do not understand all of the hits I’ve been getting for “leeches” lately. I put up one stinking page involving leeches and I get a gazillion hits from Google from people looking for pictures of leeches. Clearly, that’s no leech.
But this concerns me. Far too many people have an unnatural interest in leeches.
Discuss
He responded: “They’re heeeeerrrrrre.”
The second house was occupied, but they owners weren’t home. Nice house. Very nice house. Except for the pot-bellied stove in the family room. That seemed to scream to me: Hospital visit for the baby. Plus, the thing had been on the market for 4 hours and 12 people had already visited. That damn house is going to be gone this morning. My lovely wife and I didn’t have the energy to get into a bidding war on our first day of house hunting.
The house was clearly prepared by a really good realtor. The bookshelf had copies of the Bhava Gita and Edna St. Vincent Millay. No one actually reads Sonnets for fun. I have an English degree and I don’t read sonnets for fun. It was pretentious crap. When I sell my house I’m going to have Spankhouse Magazine and comic books everywhere.
As we were leaving, the other agent and I were discussing the cool rug they had in the living room. Despite our best efforts, we couldn’t figure out how to steal it.
We didn’t, of course. That would be wrong. And the couch was really heavy.
A bunch more are on the docket for today. So I must go now.
By the way, I simply do not understand all of the hits I’ve been getting for “leeches” lately. I put up one stinking page involving leeches and I get a gazillion hits from Google from people looking for pictures of leeches. Clearly, that’s no leech.
But this concerns me. Far too many people have an unnatural interest in leeches.
Discuss
Tuesday, March 25, 2003
Of Vonnegut and Men
As I mentioned briefly yesterday I have decided to re-read the entire body of Kurt Vonnegut’s work. I haven’t read Vonnegut in years. He used to be a staple of my life. I could quote him the way most people quote Ricky Martin. But, in recent years I’ve been reading other material. Mainly because I’ve read all the Kurt Vonnegut I can. I’ve reached the end.
However, now I feel that Vonnegut’s work is important again. It provides a salve for my troubled soul. If you asked Kurt Vonnegut what his body of work was largely about he would say:
“If you were to bother to read my books, to behave as educated persons would, you would learn that they are not sexy, and do not argue in favor of wildness of any kind. They beg that people be kinder and more responsible than they often are. It is true that some of the characters speak coarsely. That is because people speak coarsely in real life. Especially soldiers and hardworking men speak coarsely, and even our most sheltered children know that. And we all know, too, that those words really don't damage children much. They didn't damage us when we were young. It was evil deeds and lying that hurt us.”
I honestly believe this. “That people be kinder and more responsible than they often are.” It all seems so simple. Of course, it’s not. But it just seems like it should be. People should stop being selfish and stupid.
So today, rather than tell you my own personal thoughts I thought I’d share a few pieces of Vonnegut’s mantra. I chose to start with Palm Sunday, rather than go chronologically. Why? Dunno. Reading essays, letters and other various writing.
I started with this because Vonnegut’s first thoughts are ruminations on the First Amendment.
Or, as he so aptly stated:
“’Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof, or abridging the freedom of the press, or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.’
“How could a nation with such a law raise its children in an atmosphere of decency? It couldn’t—it can’t. So the law will surely be repealed soon for the sake of children.
“And even now my books, along with books by Bernard Malamud and James Dickey and Joseph Heller and many other first-rate patriots, are regularly thrown out of public-school libraries by school board members, who commonly say that they have not actually read the books, but that they have it on good authority that the books are bad for children.”
This leads Vonneugt to say what he said above about the content of his work. He goes on:
“Perhaps you will learn from this that books are sacred to free men for very good reasons, and that wars have been fought against nations which hate books and burn them. If you are an American, you must allow all ideas to circulate freely in your community, not merely your own.”
I do have a point to all this. It’s coming up. But I wanted to continue with Vonnegut’s thoughts. He goes on to discuss the work of Thomas Aquinas. The Thomist hierarchy of laws states that the laws that govern human beings are organized in this order: 1. Law of God, 2. Law of Nature, 3. Law of Man. This is to say that, God’s law takes precedence over the Bill of Rights. Which is to say, you can have a heart attack before you can defend your First Amendment rights. Life sucks, get a helmet. But it also means that Nature’s law also takes precedence over your First Amendment rights. You are free to stand in front of the tornado and voice your displeasure with its destructive ways. But the tornado won’t care.
Vonnuget attributes each law with a card from a deck. God’s law is an Ace, Nature’s a King and Man’s a Queen. So, we are always at a shortage when we pull our queen because Nature and God hold the trump card:
”Theologians can give us hints of the wording, but it takes a dictator to set them down just right—to dot the I’s and cross the t’s. A man who had been a mere corporal in the army did that for Germany and then for all of Europe, you may remember, not long ago. There was nothing he did not know about divine and natural law. He had fistfuls of aces and kings to play.
“Meanwhile, over on this side of the Atlantic, we were not playing with a full deck, as they say. Because of our Constitution, the highest card anybody had to play was a lousy queen, contemptible human law. That remains true today. I myself celebrate that incompleteness, since it has obviously been good for us.”
The point is: Be careful when you invoke God as your motive. Or as Vonnegut says:
”What troubles me most about my lovely country is that its children are seldom taught that American freedom will vanish, if, when they grow up, and in the exercise of their duties as citizens, they insist that our courts and policemen and prisons be guided by divine or natural law . . .the groundwork for the lesson, which is this: That no one really understands nature or God . . .I have not said that our government is anti-nature and anti-God. I have said that it is non-nature and non-God, for very good reasons that could curl your hair.”
We’ve seen those very good reasons that can curl your hair. Time and again. Be careful what you ask God to endorse. Be very careful what you do in His name.
Human law is imperfect. But we can understand it. Natural and Spiritual forces we cannot. Be careful how you ask that they be wielded.
What is my point to all of this? Not much, really. Just to say that the First Amendment doesn’t just apply to the press, or to pro-America rallies or pro-Peace rallies. The First Amendment is for all of us. Use it. Often. Speak your mind. Listen to others that speak their mind. I just did. It didn’t make much sense, but it was certainly on my mind.
A lot of anger is being spewed forth lately. Decent anger. But we must make sure that this anger is productive. And that the anger flows both ways. The anger should, and must, bring us somewhere. Otherwise we are all tilting at windmills.
How do we do this? How can we possibly listen to each other? I don’t know. But I’d like to think that Vonnegut has a good idea. And it is a good idea. So simple, so precise. Seemingly so easy to do.
“Be aware of this truth that the people on this earth could be joyous, if only they would live rationally and if they would contribute mutually to each others' welfare.”
Discuss The Fact That This Blog Is Misguided
However, now I feel that Vonnegut’s work is important again. It provides a salve for my troubled soul. If you asked Kurt Vonnegut what his body of work was largely about he would say:
“If you were to bother to read my books, to behave as educated persons would, you would learn that they are not sexy, and do not argue in favor of wildness of any kind. They beg that people be kinder and more responsible than they often are. It is true that some of the characters speak coarsely. That is because people speak coarsely in real life. Especially soldiers and hardworking men speak coarsely, and even our most sheltered children know that. And we all know, too, that those words really don't damage children much. They didn't damage us when we were young. It was evil deeds and lying that hurt us.”
I honestly believe this. “That people be kinder and more responsible than they often are.” It all seems so simple. Of course, it’s not. But it just seems like it should be. People should stop being selfish and stupid.
So today, rather than tell you my own personal thoughts I thought I’d share a few pieces of Vonnegut’s mantra. I chose to start with Palm Sunday, rather than go chronologically. Why? Dunno. Reading essays, letters and other various writing.
I started with this because Vonnegut’s first thoughts are ruminations on the First Amendment.
Or, as he so aptly stated:
“’Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof, or abridging the freedom of the press, or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.’
“How could a nation with such a law raise its children in an atmosphere of decency? It couldn’t—it can’t. So the law will surely be repealed soon for the sake of children.
“And even now my books, along with books by Bernard Malamud and James Dickey and Joseph Heller and many other first-rate patriots, are regularly thrown out of public-school libraries by school board members, who commonly say that they have not actually read the books, but that they have it on good authority that the books are bad for children.”
This leads Vonneugt to say what he said above about the content of his work. He goes on:
“Perhaps you will learn from this that books are sacred to free men for very good reasons, and that wars have been fought against nations which hate books and burn them. If you are an American, you must allow all ideas to circulate freely in your community, not merely your own.”
I do have a point to all this. It’s coming up. But I wanted to continue with Vonnegut’s thoughts. He goes on to discuss the work of Thomas Aquinas. The Thomist hierarchy of laws states that the laws that govern human beings are organized in this order: 1. Law of God, 2. Law of Nature, 3. Law of Man. This is to say that, God’s law takes precedence over the Bill of Rights. Which is to say, you can have a heart attack before you can defend your First Amendment rights. Life sucks, get a helmet. But it also means that Nature’s law also takes precedence over your First Amendment rights. You are free to stand in front of the tornado and voice your displeasure with its destructive ways. But the tornado won’t care.
Vonnuget attributes each law with a card from a deck. God’s law is an Ace, Nature’s a King and Man’s a Queen. So, we are always at a shortage when we pull our queen because Nature and God hold the trump card:
”Theologians can give us hints of the wording, but it takes a dictator to set them down just right—to dot the I’s and cross the t’s. A man who had been a mere corporal in the army did that for Germany and then for all of Europe, you may remember, not long ago. There was nothing he did not know about divine and natural law. He had fistfuls of aces and kings to play.
“Meanwhile, over on this side of the Atlantic, we were not playing with a full deck, as they say. Because of our Constitution, the highest card anybody had to play was a lousy queen, contemptible human law. That remains true today. I myself celebrate that incompleteness, since it has obviously been good for us.”
The point is: Be careful when you invoke God as your motive. Or as Vonnegut says:
”What troubles me most about my lovely country is that its children are seldom taught that American freedom will vanish, if, when they grow up, and in the exercise of their duties as citizens, they insist that our courts and policemen and prisons be guided by divine or natural law . . .the groundwork for the lesson, which is this: That no one really understands nature or God . . .I have not said that our government is anti-nature and anti-God. I have said that it is non-nature and non-God, for very good reasons that could curl your hair.”
We’ve seen those very good reasons that can curl your hair. Time and again. Be careful what you ask God to endorse. Be very careful what you do in His name.
Human law is imperfect. But we can understand it. Natural and Spiritual forces we cannot. Be careful how you ask that they be wielded.
What is my point to all of this? Not much, really. Just to say that the First Amendment doesn’t just apply to the press, or to pro-America rallies or pro-Peace rallies. The First Amendment is for all of us. Use it. Often. Speak your mind. Listen to others that speak their mind. I just did. It didn’t make much sense, but it was certainly on my mind.
A lot of anger is being spewed forth lately. Decent anger. But we must make sure that this anger is productive. And that the anger flows both ways. The anger should, and must, bring us somewhere. Otherwise we are all tilting at windmills.
How do we do this? How can we possibly listen to each other? I don’t know. But I’d like to think that Vonnegut has a good idea. And it is a good idea. So simple, so precise. Seemingly so easy to do.
“Be aware of this truth that the people on this earth could be joyous, if only they would live rationally and if they would contribute mutually to each others' welfare.”
Discuss The Fact That This Blog Is Misguided
Monday, March 24, 2003
Just For Giggles
I thought I'd post the playlist I'm listening to today. It's in alphabetical order, for ease of use. (No it didn't take me that long. I just exported the contents of the folder.)
Why did I do this? Hell if I know. I thought some random person might be interested in what I was listening to. Besides, I know at least one reader who will be benefiting from this list very soon.
13th Floor Elevator - You're Gonna Miss Me
Adventures In Stereo - Ghosts
Air - Ce Matin-La
Aisler Set-California
Apples In Stereo – Look Away
Barry & The Remains - Diddy Wah Diddy
Belle And Sebastian - I Love My Car
Belle And Sebastian - Judy Is A Dick Slap
Big Star - Watch The Sunrise
Blinker The Star - Pretty Pictures
Blue Ash - Abracadabra (Have You Seen Her )
Blue Magoos - We Ain't Got Nothing Yet
Breetles -Tell Me Who
Broadcast - Come On Let's Go
Broadcast - Papercuts
Call And Response - Blowin' Bubbles
Chamber Strings - Make It Through The Summer
Cherry Twister - Kinda Like A Star
Cherry Twister - She's Gone
Chewy Marble - I Want You Only
Chewy Marble - Peculiar
Chewy Marble - Silly Place
Cloud Eleven - Take Control
Cockeyed Ghost - At The Bookstore
Cornelius - Theme From First Question Award
Cosmic Rough Riders - Baby You´Re So Free
Cotton Mather - Lily Dreams On
Creation - Making Time
Cryan' Shames - It Could Be We're In Love -
Cryan' Shames - We Could Be Happy
Cyrus Erie - Get The Message
Dave Clark Five - Man In The Pinstripe Suit
Davie Allan & The Arrows - Blues' Theme
Donovan - Catch The Wind
Donovan - Mellow Yellow
Donovan - Sunshine Superman
Dressy Bessy - California
Electric Prunes - I Had Too Much To Dream (Last Night)
Elliott Smith - Baby Britain
Evelyn Forever - Purple Flowers
Fantastic Plastic Machine - Bachelor Pad
Farrah - Talk About Nothing
Fletcher Pratt - Sugar Won't Let You Sleep
Four Piece Suit - Something For Cat
Friends Of Dean Martinez - I Wish You Love
Georgie Fame - Beware Of The Dog
Green And Yellow Tv - Betty
Hope Sandoval And The Warm Inventions - At The Doorway Again
Insect Surfers - Mr. Yunioshi
It’s My Party - Can’t
Jigsaw Seen - Melody Fair
Jonathan Richman - That Summer Feeling
Kinks - Everybody's Gonna Be Happy
Ladybug Transistor - Like A Summer Rain
Laika & The Cosmonauts - Theme From Endless Summer
Lemon Trees - Everything I Want To Know
Linus Of Hollywood - Good Sounds
Love - Always See Your Face
Love Sculpture - In The Land Of The Few
Lovin' Spoonful - Summer In The City
Lovin' Spoonfull - You Didn't Have To Be So Nice
Manfred Mann - The Mighty Quinn (Quinn The Eskimo)
Masters Of The Hemisphere - The New Freemdoom
Mello Cads - We're The Mello Cads
Michael Carpenter - Thinking About You
Mike Flowers - Call Me
Mike Flowers Pops - Venus As A Boy
Move - I Can Hear The Grass Grow
Moviees - Come On
Moviees - Never Want To Be Like You
Music Machine - Talk Talk
Nazz - Open My Eyes
Neko Case - Pretty Girls
New Colony Six - Love You So Much
New Colony Six - Things I'd Like To Say
Nico - These Days
Orange Peels - The Pattern On The Wall
Orange Peels - You're So Clever
Outrageous Cherry - Where Do I Go When You Dream
Paley Brothers - Come Out And Play
Pavement Carrot Rope
Psychotic Reaction - Count Five
Rhinoceros - Apricot Brandy
Royales--About You
Rubinoos - I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend
Ruppert's People - Reflection Of Charles Brown
Salteens - Kelly Nichol
Shadows Of Knight - Shake
Single Bullet Theory - My Lovin' Baby
Sir Douglas Quintet - She's About A Mover
Sloan - Everything You've Done Wrong
Smog - Cold Blooded Old Times
Splitsville - Sunshine Daydream
Splitsville – The Popular
Spongetones - Am I Dancing Or What
Status Quo - Pictures Of Matchstick Men
Sugarplumfairies - Anyway
Supergrass – Alright
Swirl360 - Hey Hey Now
Syndicate Of Sound - Little Girl
Tearaways - Jessica Something
Teen Machine - I'm Gonna Steal Your Girlfriend
Teenage Fanclub - I Need Direction
The Apples In Stereo - Ruby
The Apples In Stereo - Strawberryfire
The Apples In Stereo - The Shiney Sea
The Atlantics - Come On
The Baloon Farm - A Question Of Temperature
The Beatifics - Almost Something There
The Beau Brummels - Laugh Laugh
The Bluestars - Social End Product
The Boxtops - Cry Like A Baby
The Boxtops - The Letter
The Buckinghams - Kind Of A Drag
The Chesterfield Kings - 60 Second Swinger
The Creation - How Does It Feel-
The Essex Green - Mrs Bean
The Eyes - I'm Rowed Out
The Greenberry Woods - #37 (Feels So Strange)
The Greenberry Woods - Busted
The Greenberry Woods - I'll Send A Message
The Greenberry Woods - Oh Christine
The Happy Losers - Somewhere In The Middle Of A Sunday
The Hombres - Let It All Hang Out
The Knickerbockers - Lies
The Ladybug Transistor - Meadowport Arch
The Leaves - Hey Joe
The Magnetic Fields - The Saddest Story Ever Told
The Mops - I'm Just A Mops
The Motions - For Another Man
The Move - Message From The Country
The Move - Tonight
The Music Explosion - Little Bit O'soul
The Ocean Blue - Behind
The Open Mind - Magic Potion
The Rattles - It's My Fault
The Retros - Girls Eyes
The Sand - Listen To The Sky
The Searchers - When You Walk In The Room
The Seeds - Pushin' Too Hard
The Small Faces - Here Comes The Nice
The Smoke - My Friend Jack
The Spencer Davis Group - I'm A Man
The Spongetones - She Goes Out
The Standells - Dirty Water
The Sunshine Fix - Future History And The Irrelevance Of Time
The Syn - 14 Hour Technicolor Dream
The Tattle Tales- Sometimes I Forget The Rules Of Rock N Roll
The Who - A Legal Matter
The Who - Armenia
The Who - Run Run Run
The Who - The Kids Are Alright
The Wonders- Dance With We Tonight
The Young Rascals - I Ain't Gonna Eat Out My Heart Anymore
The Zips - Kicks And Chicks
Tiki Tones - The Ghost And Mr. Chicken
Tyde - Lost
Velocity Girl - I Can't Stop Smiling
Velvet Underground - Stephanie Says
Velvet Underground - Who Loves The Sun
Wilco - Secret Of The Sea
Wondermints - Out Of Mind
Wondermints - Shine On Me
Wondermints - So Nice
Wondermints - The Party
Yellow Balloon - Yellow Balloon
Yum Yums - Girls Like That
Zumpano - The Party Rages On
Discuss Playlist: What Would You Add or Delete?
Why did I do this? Hell if I know. I thought some random person might be interested in what I was listening to. Besides, I know at least one reader who will be benefiting from this list very soon.
13th Floor Elevator - You're Gonna Miss Me
Adventures In Stereo - Ghosts
Air - Ce Matin-La
Aisler Set-California
Apples In Stereo – Look Away
Barry & The Remains - Diddy Wah Diddy
Belle And Sebastian - I Love My Car
Belle And Sebastian - Judy Is A Dick Slap
Big Star - Watch The Sunrise
Blinker The Star - Pretty Pictures
Blue Ash - Abracadabra (Have You Seen Her )
Blue Magoos - We Ain't Got Nothing Yet
Breetles -Tell Me Who
Broadcast - Come On Let's Go
Broadcast - Papercuts
Call And Response - Blowin' Bubbles
Chamber Strings - Make It Through The Summer
Cherry Twister - Kinda Like A Star
Cherry Twister - She's Gone
Chewy Marble - I Want You Only
Chewy Marble - Peculiar
Chewy Marble - Silly Place
Cloud Eleven - Take Control
Cockeyed Ghost - At The Bookstore
Cornelius - Theme From First Question Award
Cosmic Rough Riders - Baby You´Re So Free
Cotton Mather - Lily Dreams On
Creation - Making Time
Cryan' Shames - It Could Be We're In Love -
Cryan' Shames - We Could Be Happy
Cyrus Erie - Get The Message
Dave Clark Five - Man In The Pinstripe Suit
Davie Allan & The Arrows - Blues' Theme
Donovan - Catch The Wind
Donovan - Mellow Yellow
Donovan - Sunshine Superman
Dressy Bessy - California
Electric Prunes - I Had Too Much To Dream (Last Night)
Elliott Smith - Baby Britain
Evelyn Forever - Purple Flowers
Fantastic Plastic Machine - Bachelor Pad
Farrah - Talk About Nothing
Fletcher Pratt - Sugar Won't Let You Sleep
Four Piece Suit - Something For Cat
Friends Of Dean Martinez - I Wish You Love
Georgie Fame - Beware Of The Dog
Green And Yellow Tv - Betty
Hope Sandoval And The Warm Inventions - At The Doorway Again
Insect Surfers - Mr. Yunioshi
It’s My Party - Can’t
Jigsaw Seen - Melody Fair
Jonathan Richman - That Summer Feeling
Kinks - Everybody's Gonna Be Happy
Ladybug Transistor - Like A Summer Rain
Laika & The Cosmonauts - Theme From Endless Summer
Lemon Trees - Everything I Want To Know
Linus Of Hollywood - Good Sounds
Love - Always See Your Face
Love Sculpture - In The Land Of The Few
Lovin' Spoonful - Summer In The City
Lovin' Spoonfull - You Didn't Have To Be So Nice
Manfred Mann - The Mighty Quinn (Quinn The Eskimo)
Masters Of The Hemisphere - The New Freemdoom
Mello Cads - We're The Mello Cads
Michael Carpenter - Thinking About You
Mike Flowers - Call Me
Mike Flowers Pops - Venus As A Boy
Move - I Can Hear The Grass Grow
Moviees - Come On
Moviees - Never Want To Be Like You
Music Machine - Talk Talk
Nazz - Open My Eyes
Neko Case - Pretty Girls
New Colony Six - Love You So Much
New Colony Six - Things I'd Like To Say
Nico - These Days
Orange Peels - The Pattern On The Wall
Orange Peels - You're So Clever
Outrageous Cherry - Where Do I Go When You Dream
Paley Brothers - Come Out And Play
Pavement Carrot Rope
Psychotic Reaction - Count Five
Rhinoceros - Apricot Brandy
Royales--About You
Rubinoos - I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend
Ruppert's People - Reflection Of Charles Brown
Salteens - Kelly Nichol
Shadows Of Knight - Shake
Single Bullet Theory - My Lovin' Baby
Sir Douglas Quintet - She's About A Mover
Sloan - Everything You've Done Wrong
Smog - Cold Blooded Old Times
Splitsville - Sunshine Daydream
Splitsville – The Popular
Spongetones - Am I Dancing Or What
Status Quo - Pictures Of Matchstick Men
Sugarplumfairies - Anyway
Supergrass – Alright
Swirl360 - Hey Hey Now
Syndicate Of Sound - Little Girl
Tearaways - Jessica Something
Teen Machine - I'm Gonna Steal Your Girlfriend
Teenage Fanclub - I Need Direction
The Apples In Stereo - Ruby
The Apples In Stereo - Strawberryfire
The Apples In Stereo - The Shiney Sea
The Atlantics - Come On
The Baloon Farm - A Question Of Temperature
The Beatifics - Almost Something There
The Beau Brummels - Laugh Laugh
The Bluestars - Social End Product
The Boxtops - Cry Like A Baby
The Boxtops - The Letter
The Buckinghams - Kind Of A Drag
The Chesterfield Kings - 60 Second Swinger
The Creation - How Does It Feel-
The Essex Green - Mrs Bean
The Eyes - I'm Rowed Out
The Greenberry Woods - #37 (Feels So Strange)
The Greenberry Woods - Busted
The Greenberry Woods - I'll Send A Message
The Greenberry Woods - Oh Christine
The Happy Losers - Somewhere In The Middle Of A Sunday
The Hombres - Let It All Hang Out
The Knickerbockers - Lies
The Ladybug Transistor - Meadowport Arch
The Leaves - Hey Joe
The Magnetic Fields - The Saddest Story Ever Told
The Mops - I'm Just A Mops
The Motions - For Another Man
The Move - Message From The Country
The Move - Tonight
The Music Explosion - Little Bit O'soul
The Ocean Blue - Behind
The Open Mind - Magic Potion
The Rattles - It's My Fault
The Retros - Girls Eyes
The Sand - Listen To The Sky
The Searchers - When You Walk In The Room
The Seeds - Pushin' Too Hard
The Small Faces - Here Comes The Nice
The Smoke - My Friend Jack
The Spencer Davis Group - I'm A Man
The Spongetones - She Goes Out
The Standells - Dirty Water
The Sunshine Fix - Future History And The Irrelevance Of Time
The Syn - 14 Hour Technicolor Dream
The Tattle Tales- Sometimes I Forget The Rules Of Rock N Roll
The Who - A Legal Matter
The Who - Armenia
The Who - Run Run Run
The Who - The Kids Are Alright
The Wonders- Dance With We Tonight
The Young Rascals - I Ain't Gonna Eat Out My Heart Anymore
The Zips - Kicks And Chicks
Tiki Tones - The Ghost And Mr. Chicken
Tyde - Lost
Velocity Girl - I Can't Stop Smiling
Velvet Underground - Stephanie Says
Velvet Underground - Who Loves The Sun
Wilco - Secret Of The Sea
Wondermints - Out Of Mind
Wondermints - Shine On Me
Wondermints - So Nice
Wondermints - The Party
Yellow Balloon - Yellow Balloon
Yum Yums - Girls Like That
Zumpano - The Party Rages On
Discuss Playlist: What Would You Add or Delete?
Last Thing . . .
Sometimes you just need to listen to Velvet Underground and/or Nico. There's something about their particular brand of pop/psychedelia/carioca that I find irresistible sometimes.
Sometimes you really do have to ask the musical question, "Who loves the sun?"
Sometimes you really do have to ask the musical question, "Who loves the sun?"
Weekends Only: To Zerbert or to Get a Mortgage?
Wow, what a weekend. Besides my sudden urge to re-read the entire oeuvre of Kurt Vonnegut (not all in one weekend, of course), we spent the better part of our downtime interviewing potential real estate agents who will represent us in our home purchase. Most realtors thought this was odd, considering they usually work from referrals and we don’t directly pay them. However, considering they will be representing us in an expensive financial endeavor that will saddle us with considerable debt and a house that we may or may not love entirely, we felt it was better to choose a realtor we felt was perfect for us.
And we found them. It’s a team of two guys who work as a team. They are close to our age and really seem to “get” the issues of first-time homebuyers. They brought us six listings on Saturday and, after we were able to look at them, those boys really nailed what we were looking for based on the very small amount of information that we gave them. The best part is that the houses are very close to my lovely wife’s work, gorgeous baby’s sitter and adorable older-daughter’s friends. We’ll change school districts, but that’s okay. Our kids are brilliant and would excel in caves. Even better, they are very close to the Pudding’s new residence, which means that Gertrude and Meredith will be able to listen to Frank Bango together. I envision the day when they come to us and ask, “When Frank sings ‘Isn’t that like saying everything will be okay as we make our way towards the guillotine’ what exactly does that mean?” (Side note: Frank Bango has personally endorsed the gestation and subsequent birth of Pudding Pop. Wow. I was only able to get the blessing from Mike Love, that bastard from the Beach Boys. And that was because I promised she would have less hair than him. I tried to get Darian Sahanaja of the Wondermints to endorse the birth, because of his Groovy hair. But he was in Japan at the time. Damn him.)
We look at our first houses tomorrow afternoon. The thought of writing a check larger than the price of a CD makes me nauseous. I hope that when the time comes, I don’t throw up at the title company.
“Mr. O’Brien, we’ll need your check for $100000000000000000 now.”
“Blarck!”
We had some other fun this weekend as well. Matilida went on a road-trip with Grandma to see her uncle in a play. She had a wonderful time and was actually included in the play for a brief moment. The rest of us talked to realtors.
But two very important events unfolded regarding the baby. It’s true that her vocabulary is expanding every single day and that this weekend she added “eat” and “cheese” to her growing lexicon of Gertish. Of course, that has nothing to do with what I’m talking about.
Gertrude is trying to exert her sense of independence and showing that, at the ripe-old age of sixteen months, she wants to show her autonomy.
It started innocently enough. We were chasing the girls through the house and zerberting them. (For those of you not familiar with the concept of a zerbert, it is when you give someone raspberries on their tummies. It is funny when you do it to a kid, but when adults try to zerbert one another it is grounds for divorce and, in some cases, financial damages). We caught the baby and zerberted her. She zerberted back. We all laughed with the glee of a happy family spreading saliva through the house.
Then Gert walked away, pulled up her shirt exposing her extra-cute baby tummy, bent over and tried to zerbert herself. Why wait for Mom, Dad or Sissy to do it when she could clearly try it on her own?
Didn’t work. Though she has continually tried this for several days. I suspect that someday she will be successful and will write a scientific paper on the merits of removing two of your vertebrae for this purpose. “In conclusion, self-zerberting provides the subject with an over-all sense of calm and glee.”
The second instance of Gert’s independence is a little grosser and I’m afraid to even share it. However, the actions described in the story are part of a father’s prerogative and carry on traditions that have been around for centuries. Traditions that are far larger than you or me or the universe.
It involves “pull my finger”, a time-honored Dad joke that never gets old. When it’s your finger getting pulled. For the puller, all bets are off. However, one caveat: It involved belching, not other, more heinous acts.
So, I down a soda in one gulp and walk up to Gertrude. “Pull Daddy’s finger!” So she does. I belch. She laughs hysterically. (Note to all future parents: Despite what studies say about potty humor with children, it gets a huge laugh. It’s all about the laughs.)
Gertrude loved this little game and we played until I had lost five pounds. When I told her the game was over, she walked away sadly.
Then I looked over at her and saw her trying to pull her own finger. The look of frustration at the lack of report that is supposed to occur when you pull the trigger was profound. She was disappointed that she couldn’t succeed.
I felt bad. Really bad. And then I laughed for hours.
Because, of course, you know what the secret of comedy is, right?
Discuss
And we found them. It’s a team of two guys who work as a team. They are close to our age and really seem to “get” the issues of first-time homebuyers. They brought us six listings on Saturday and, after we were able to look at them, those boys really nailed what we were looking for based on the very small amount of information that we gave them. The best part is that the houses are very close to my lovely wife’s work, gorgeous baby’s sitter and adorable older-daughter’s friends. We’ll change school districts, but that’s okay. Our kids are brilliant and would excel in caves. Even better, they are very close to the Pudding’s new residence, which means that Gertrude and Meredith will be able to listen to Frank Bango together. I envision the day when they come to us and ask, “When Frank sings ‘Isn’t that like saying everything will be okay as we make our way towards the guillotine’ what exactly does that mean?” (Side note: Frank Bango has personally endorsed the gestation and subsequent birth of Pudding Pop. Wow. I was only able to get the blessing from Mike Love, that bastard from the Beach Boys. And that was because I promised she would have less hair than him. I tried to get Darian Sahanaja of the Wondermints to endorse the birth, because of his Groovy hair. But he was in Japan at the time. Damn him.)
We look at our first houses tomorrow afternoon. The thought of writing a check larger than the price of a CD makes me nauseous. I hope that when the time comes, I don’t throw up at the title company.
“Mr. O’Brien, we’ll need your check for $100000000000000000 now.”
“Blarck!”
We had some other fun this weekend as well. Matilida went on a road-trip with Grandma to see her uncle in a play. She had a wonderful time and was actually included in the play for a brief moment. The rest of us talked to realtors.
But two very important events unfolded regarding the baby. It’s true that her vocabulary is expanding every single day and that this weekend she added “eat” and “cheese” to her growing lexicon of Gertish. Of course, that has nothing to do with what I’m talking about.
Gertrude is trying to exert her sense of independence and showing that, at the ripe-old age of sixteen months, she wants to show her autonomy.
It started innocently enough. We were chasing the girls through the house and zerberting them. (For those of you not familiar with the concept of a zerbert, it is when you give someone raspberries on their tummies. It is funny when you do it to a kid, but when adults try to zerbert one another it is grounds for divorce and, in some cases, financial damages). We caught the baby and zerberted her. She zerberted back. We all laughed with the glee of a happy family spreading saliva through the house.
Then Gert walked away, pulled up her shirt exposing her extra-cute baby tummy, bent over and tried to zerbert herself. Why wait for Mom, Dad or Sissy to do it when she could clearly try it on her own?
Didn’t work. Though she has continually tried this for several days. I suspect that someday she will be successful and will write a scientific paper on the merits of removing two of your vertebrae for this purpose. “In conclusion, self-zerberting provides the subject with an over-all sense of calm and glee.”
The second instance of Gert’s independence is a little grosser and I’m afraid to even share it. However, the actions described in the story are part of a father’s prerogative and carry on traditions that have been around for centuries. Traditions that are far larger than you or me or the universe.
It involves “pull my finger”, a time-honored Dad joke that never gets old. When it’s your finger getting pulled. For the puller, all bets are off. However, one caveat: It involved belching, not other, more heinous acts.
So, I down a soda in one gulp and walk up to Gertrude. “Pull Daddy’s finger!” So she does. I belch. She laughs hysterically. (Note to all future parents: Despite what studies say about potty humor with children, it gets a huge laugh. It’s all about the laughs.)
Gertrude loved this little game and we played until I had lost five pounds. When I told her the game was over, she walked away sadly.
Then I looked over at her and saw her trying to pull her own finger. The look of frustration at the lack of report that is supposed to occur when you pull the trigger was profound. She was disappointed that she couldn’t succeed.
I felt bad. Really bad. And then I laughed for hours.
Because, of course, you know what the secret of comedy is, right?
Discuss
Saturday, March 22, 2003
I want this. It's way cool, for a variety of reasons:
1. Groovy designs.
2. It looks like an airship of some sort.
3. The designer named himself after one kick ass book.
4. It's grooooooooovy. Did I mention that?
5. It will look really cool in my house.
1. Groovy designs.
2. It looks like an airship of some sort.
3. The designer named himself after one kick ass book.
4. It's grooooooooovy. Did I mention that?
5. It will look really cool in my house.
Thursday, March 20, 2003
Troll Woman and Tears Before Bedtime
One part of being a parent is talking about your child to the authorities. Not the police or FBI, though I’m sure that will come eventually when one of the girls unveils her plans for world domination. It’s not easy raising children whose ambitions lie within the world of comic book supervillains with superpowers of mind control and gas bombs. If there’s a supervillain whose powers are crying on demand, my daughters will be perfect.
Last night we went to parent/teacher conferences for Matilda. The conversation went as expected:
”She’s frighteningly smart, reading at a level far above her peers, always seeking a new challenge and an absolute delight to have in class. But she cries a lot. It’s not that she’s upset all the time, but when something happens, she takes it as a personal failure on her part to not have been able to solve the problem before it became an issue.”
That’s my girl! Frighteningly smart, but overly concerned for the welfare of others. If they are mad at her, she’s not concerned about the actual incident, but rather upset about the course of action she took to correct it. It failed and, therefore, she failed.
The crying thing is something I’ve been trying work on with her. I’ve been talking with Matilda on ways to avoid getting to the point of crying over everything. For example, let’s say you can’t find your belt. What do you do?
Well, she usually breaks down into a mass of apologetic emotion. “I’m so sorry. I lost my belt. Please forgive me.”
”Did you look on your bed?”
”Oh. There it is. Thanks!”
So, we’re looking at using logic to confront the heady emotional issues such as: her ice cream melted, there’s a knot in her shoe lace, her zipper is stuck, they pre-empted Spongebob, it’s raining when the weather said it would be sunny, etc. We’re trying to look at the situations on a per-issue basis and decide, “Hey, should I cry or find a solution?”
Now, what’s odd is that the issues where she should cry she doesn’t. For example, her brownie leader is a pain in the ass. She’s a short, moronic troll who uses the brownie troop to further her own quest for a sense of worth and belonging. It doesn’t work. Because, no matter what she does, she’s a worthless troll. I’ve met her at least FIVE times. One of those times she thought I was kidnapping my own child. But, still, she introduces herself to me and is sure we never met. Oh, if only I could wipe away my memories of her as she does with me. Maybe then the nightmares would end.
She has a tendency to do stupid things that only half the troop is allowed to do. Now, I may be wrong, but I thought that brownies was supposed to teach my child the importance of doing good things as a group, as well as an individual. The rewards for being an individual are badges. The rewards for good group work are group activities.
Not according to Troll. According to her twisted vision of the world, her child gets to do everything, her friends’ children get to do everything and then she’ll let the rest of us know two days before the event, even though it is too late to sign the girls up.
So, does Matilda cry over these things? No. She says, “Mrs. Troll is the worst leader of a quasi-military institution I’ve ever seen. We should report her. I don’t even WANT to go horseback riding with them anyway. I’ll have more fun at home cleaning out my ears with a cheese-grater. Screw her and the Lexus she rode in on. What an idiot.”
And she’s done. She’s not upset because some of her friends get to do something that she doesn’t because she realizes that it was the troll who messed it up. She’s not going to let this woman’s stupidity ruin her day. She goes about her business.
My wife on the other hand is planning to go Medieval on this woman and tell her that she has a) no idea how to run a brownie troop, b) losing kids during meetings is probably a bad thing (oh yes, she has done it), c) sending out a permission slip the day before an event is too late, d) if she’s going to call us and say, “Call me back, it’s URGENT” buy a freaking answering machine. Because now she’s going to blame whatever it was that she messed up on us.
Plus, there’s a perfectly good house on the market that we’d love to buy. Except it’s across the street from her house. No way am I going to live in troll land.
But, it’s okay. Eventually she’ll crumble from the pressure and one of her seven-year-old brownies will have to come and save the day for her.
God I hope I can be there when that happens. To see this woman humiliated by the moral, mental and emotional superiority of a group of seven-year-old girls would be one of the most memorable experiences of my life.
Discuss
Last night we went to parent/teacher conferences for Matilda. The conversation went as expected:
”She’s frighteningly smart, reading at a level far above her peers, always seeking a new challenge and an absolute delight to have in class. But she cries a lot. It’s not that she’s upset all the time, but when something happens, she takes it as a personal failure on her part to not have been able to solve the problem before it became an issue.”
That’s my girl! Frighteningly smart, but overly concerned for the welfare of others. If they are mad at her, she’s not concerned about the actual incident, but rather upset about the course of action she took to correct it. It failed and, therefore, she failed.
The crying thing is something I’ve been trying work on with her. I’ve been talking with Matilda on ways to avoid getting to the point of crying over everything. For example, let’s say you can’t find your belt. What do you do?
Well, she usually breaks down into a mass of apologetic emotion. “I’m so sorry. I lost my belt. Please forgive me.”
”Did you look on your bed?”
”Oh. There it is. Thanks!”
So, we’re looking at using logic to confront the heady emotional issues such as: her ice cream melted, there’s a knot in her shoe lace, her zipper is stuck, they pre-empted Spongebob, it’s raining when the weather said it would be sunny, etc. We’re trying to look at the situations on a per-issue basis and decide, “Hey, should I cry or find a solution?”
Now, what’s odd is that the issues where she should cry she doesn’t. For example, her brownie leader is a pain in the ass. She’s a short, moronic troll who uses the brownie troop to further her own quest for a sense of worth and belonging. It doesn’t work. Because, no matter what she does, she’s a worthless troll. I’ve met her at least FIVE times. One of those times she thought I was kidnapping my own child. But, still, she introduces herself to me and is sure we never met. Oh, if only I could wipe away my memories of her as she does with me. Maybe then the nightmares would end.
She has a tendency to do stupid things that only half the troop is allowed to do. Now, I may be wrong, but I thought that brownies was supposed to teach my child the importance of doing good things as a group, as well as an individual. The rewards for being an individual are badges. The rewards for good group work are group activities.
Not according to Troll. According to her twisted vision of the world, her child gets to do everything, her friends’ children get to do everything and then she’ll let the rest of us know two days before the event, even though it is too late to sign the girls up.
So, does Matilda cry over these things? No. She says, “Mrs. Troll is the worst leader of a quasi-military institution I’ve ever seen. We should report her. I don’t even WANT to go horseback riding with them anyway. I’ll have more fun at home cleaning out my ears with a cheese-grater. Screw her and the Lexus she rode in on. What an idiot.”
And she’s done. She’s not upset because some of her friends get to do something that she doesn’t because she realizes that it was the troll who messed it up. She’s not going to let this woman’s stupidity ruin her day. She goes about her business.
My wife on the other hand is planning to go Medieval on this woman and tell her that she has a) no idea how to run a brownie troop, b) losing kids during meetings is probably a bad thing (oh yes, she has done it), c) sending out a permission slip the day before an event is too late, d) if she’s going to call us and say, “Call me back, it’s URGENT” buy a freaking answering machine. Because now she’s going to blame whatever it was that she messed up on us.
Plus, there’s a perfectly good house on the market that we’d love to buy. Except it’s across the street from her house. No way am I going to live in troll land.
But, it’s okay. Eventually she’ll crumble from the pressure and one of her seven-year-old brownies will have to come and save the day for her.
God I hope I can be there when that happens. To see this woman humiliated by the moral, mental and emotional superiority of a group of seven-year-old girls would be one of the most memorable experiences of my life.
Discuss
Wednesday, March 19, 2003
Blogging By Email
It is official. I can now post via email. Which means I can also post from
my phone. I think the word for this situation is: Sweet.
If only it had been active last week while I was in Dayton. I could have
been posting updates from the game, discussing my newfound love affair with
Skyline Chili and explaining the wonders of this sub sandwich I ate. John
was afraid I would never leave the restaurant.
I AM TECH BOY! I CAN POST ANYWHERE. HA HA!!!!!!!!
my phone. I think the word for this situation is: Sweet.
If only it had been active last week while I was in Dayton. I could have
been posting updates from the game, discussing my newfound love affair with
Skyline Chili and explaining the wonders of this sub sandwich I ate. John
was afraid I would never leave the restaurant.
I AM TECH BOY! I CAN POST ANYWHERE. HA HA!!!!!!!!
Nnoh!
Gertrude’s vocabulary is growing by the day. At this point, she’s up to about ten full words and on the brink of many more. If you count her own personal language, she could have her own dictionary. For example, we think “Mommady” means that she wants us to do something. In addition to actual vocal speech, she is also capable of sign language to tell us her needs. She knows “more”, “please”, “thank you” and “all done” in sign language. Pretty impressive and, I have to admit, extremely helpful when she’s screaming for something.
A bizarre tradition the goober and I have gotten into is to sit at the computer and watch a Wiggles Flash animation that runs through their “Greatest Hits”. She’ll sit there hammering her finger into her open palm yelling, “Mo! Mo! Mo!” She’s a giggler with the need to Wiggle, I’ll tell ya. She’s addicted to the group. I have to admit that it heartens me. It shows that she’s interested in quality music (and the Wiggles are that . . . none of the usual, gaudy, sugary sweet children’s crap. This is high quality music in the style of sixties bubblegum. Good stuff. Plus it’s fun to sing about Fruit Salad, Hot Potatoes and Teddy Bears.) I’m heartened because she also seems to be obsessive and one-track minded about music like myself. When I get interested in something I devour it. It is my way. I have musical OCD.
Gertrude’s vocabulary currently includes:
· Mama
· Dada (Daddee, if it’s urgent)
· KayKay (her sister)
· Uh Oh
· Oh No
· Up!
· Mommady (Momma do it)
However, she’s discovered a new word that has much power for her. Every time she utters this word, she gets a drunken look on her face. A face that says, “I am in control”. She’s drunk on power.
That word is “No.” Or, as she says it: “Nnoh”. It’s cute to see this little body and hear a squeaky voice yell out No to everything. No to cookies, no to bed, no to milk, no to changes to the Clean Air Act. She’s become very vocal about the fact that she rejects everything.
Learning “no” is when children learn that they have a voice and an opinion. They can express that they do not want to be involved in some, any or usually, all activities that they did not dream up on their own.
“Gertrude, let’s play with the dollie!”
“No!” she replies. Which really means, “Father, I accept that at this time you wish to play some sort of role modeling behavior with me that is to teach me some sort of lesson about life. However, I would much prefer at this moment to tear up this piece of paper that you foolishly left within my reach. Oh, it’s your mortgage documents? I’m terribly sorry, but it must be destroyed. I’m sure you understand.”
Last night, my lovely wife was at a baby shower for a dear friend. So, it was just the girls and me for the evening. We went out to dinner for fast food Italian, otherwise known as “Intestinal Gas Bombs”. We had a perfectly lovely evening talking about school and learning how to drink through as straw. (And Gertrude did learn, though she much preferred the method of me holding my finger over the straw and dumping the water directly into her mouth. She was Cleopatra and I was her lowly slave boy. I fear this will become a theme in our life.)
When we got home, we all agreed that we were much too tired to go through the bathing process, and that my stupid body is much too large for the space the builders of the rat hole allotted for such processes. So we watched The Disney Channel instead.
When bedtime arrived, the exchange when thusly:
”Gertrude, time for bed!”
”No!”
“Let’s brush our teeth!”
”No!”
We did brush our teeth. And we changed a diaper and got jammies on. Then it came time to cuddle on the rocker to wind down for bed.
“No,” she yelled, and hopped off my lap and ran through the hallways yelling, “No! No! No!”
Let me tell you, it’s a bitch and a half to find a three-foot tall person in the dark when she’s hiding behind a bed.
To a chorus of “No! No! No!” we sat back down on the rocker and discussed our day.
“We went out to dinner.”
”No!”
“We ate pizza”
”No!”
”You drank from a straw!”
”No!”
“Are you ever going to get married?”
”No!”
”Will you ever move out of the house?”
”No!”
”Will you ever work at Hooters?”
”No!”
”Good, I’m glad we agree.”
I sang her a few songs, one Wiggles tune and two Beach Boys tunes and she calmed down immediately. I put her in her crib and she went to sleep without a complaint.
This morning, when she was waking up I said, “Hi Gertrude! Give Daddy a kiss?”
”No!” she cried. Which is to say, “Father, let’s be honest. We are at odds regarding this whole bedtime ritual. You are under the mistaken impression that you are in control. We will have to remedy that. Now look into my big blue eyes and I will smile for you. Perhaps even say something very cute. You will then be under my complete control. There, that wasn’t so hard, was it slave boy? Go get me some water and feed it to me through a straw.”
Discuss
A bizarre tradition the goober and I have gotten into is to sit at the computer and watch a Wiggles Flash animation that runs through their “Greatest Hits”. She’ll sit there hammering her finger into her open palm yelling, “Mo! Mo! Mo!” She’s a giggler with the need to Wiggle, I’ll tell ya. She’s addicted to the group. I have to admit that it heartens me. It shows that she’s interested in quality music (and the Wiggles are that . . . none of the usual, gaudy, sugary sweet children’s crap. This is high quality music in the style of sixties bubblegum. Good stuff. Plus it’s fun to sing about Fruit Salad, Hot Potatoes and Teddy Bears.) I’m heartened because she also seems to be obsessive and one-track minded about music like myself. When I get interested in something I devour it. It is my way. I have musical OCD.
Gertrude’s vocabulary currently includes:
· Mama
· Dada (Daddee, if it’s urgent)
· KayKay (her sister)
· Uh Oh
· Oh No
· Up!
· Mommady (Momma do it)
However, she’s discovered a new word that has much power for her. Every time she utters this word, she gets a drunken look on her face. A face that says, “I am in control”. She’s drunk on power.
That word is “No.” Or, as she says it: “Nnoh”. It’s cute to see this little body and hear a squeaky voice yell out No to everything. No to cookies, no to bed, no to milk, no to changes to the Clean Air Act. She’s become very vocal about the fact that she rejects everything.
Learning “no” is when children learn that they have a voice and an opinion. They can express that they do not want to be involved in some, any or usually, all activities that they did not dream up on their own.
“Gertrude, let’s play with the dollie!”
“No!” she replies. Which really means, “Father, I accept that at this time you wish to play some sort of role modeling behavior with me that is to teach me some sort of lesson about life. However, I would much prefer at this moment to tear up this piece of paper that you foolishly left within my reach. Oh, it’s your mortgage documents? I’m terribly sorry, but it must be destroyed. I’m sure you understand.”
Last night, my lovely wife was at a baby shower for a dear friend. So, it was just the girls and me for the evening. We went out to dinner for fast food Italian, otherwise known as “Intestinal Gas Bombs”. We had a perfectly lovely evening talking about school and learning how to drink through as straw. (And Gertrude did learn, though she much preferred the method of me holding my finger over the straw and dumping the water directly into her mouth. She was Cleopatra and I was her lowly slave boy. I fear this will become a theme in our life.)
When we got home, we all agreed that we were much too tired to go through the bathing process, and that my stupid body is much too large for the space the builders of the rat hole allotted for such processes. So we watched The Disney Channel instead.
When bedtime arrived, the exchange when thusly:
”Gertrude, time for bed!”
”No!”
“Let’s brush our teeth!”
”No!”
We did brush our teeth. And we changed a diaper and got jammies on. Then it came time to cuddle on the rocker to wind down for bed.
“No,” she yelled, and hopped off my lap and ran through the hallways yelling, “No! No! No!”
Let me tell you, it’s a bitch and a half to find a three-foot tall person in the dark when she’s hiding behind a bed.
To a chorus of “No! No! No!” we sat back down on the rocker and discussed our day.
“We went out to dinner.”
”No!”
“We ate pizza”
”No!”
”You drank from a straw!”
”No!”
“Are you ever going to get married?”
”No!”
”Will you ever move out of the house?”
”No!”
”Will you ever work at Hooters?”
”No!”
”Good, I’m glad we agree.”
I sang her a few songs, one Wiggles tune and two Beach Boys tunes and she calmed down immediately. I put her in her crib and she went to sleep without a complaint.
This morning, when she was waking up I said, “Hi Gertrude! Give Daddy a kiss?”
”No!” she cried. Which is to say, “Father, let’s be honest. We are at odds regarding this whole bedtime ritual. You are under the mistaken impression that you are in control. We will have to remedy that. Now look into my big blue eyes and I will smile for you. Perhaps even say something very cute. You will then be under my complete control. There, that wasn’t so hard, was it slave boy? Go get me some water and feed it to me through a straw.”
Discuss
Tuesday, March 18, 2003
My Friend Jack Eats Sugarlumps
Sorry no update today. I’ve been getting some loose ends tied up for some of my projects. Then, the wifey is off to a Fluid baby shower tonight, so the girls and I are going to eat junk food and watch television until she gets home . . .
In the meantime behave yourselves. If you don’t, we’ll have to send the goon squad after you.
In the meantime behave yourselves. If you don’t, we’ll have to send the goon squad after you.
Monday, March 17, 2003
Everything Was Beautiful, And Nothing Hurt
I find myself sitting here today thinking about war. It seems an unavoidable subject, doesn’t it?
For the last hour or so I’ve been trying to write about my feelings on war. Let’s just say it has fallen flat on its face. There are far more eloquent people who have far more intelligent things to say on the subject and I think I’ll let them handle the discussion.
However, I don’t find Peace, Love or Understanding so funny and I wish I lived in a world where people who felt this way were not ridiculed. Peace is a noble cause.
Perhaps I am a fool to think so. Perhaps I am a fool to want my children to grow up in a world that isn’t besieged by violence and hatred. If that is foolish, then so be it.
I’ll watch the war on TV. I’ll sincerely wish that our troops will come home safe. And I’ll also sincerely hope that no one dies at all. Isn’t that silly? That I don’t want to hear about people being blown up by anyone? Maybe I’ll just wait for the movie to come out. That way it will all be explained for me.
Oh well. I think I’ll go do some other foolish things now. Like writing letters about how I want clean air and water. Or maybe I’ll put some effort into getting a disease cured. Or, maybe I’ll do something on a small scale and buy a homeless guy lunch. That would be foolish, wouldn’t it? To let other people think I care about their welfare?
What I dread the most about this whole situation is that I’ll have to explain to my daughter why human beings go to war. I don’t know what I will say. Maybe someone will explain it to me. That would be nice. Apparently the world has been black and white for a long time, but I keep seeing all these other colors. I must be hallucinating.
Tomorrow I will come back and tell funny stories about my family. Things about how my family is happy and how much we love each other. And how we’re all foolish together.
For the last hour or so I’ve been trying to write about my feelings on war. Let’s just say it has fallen flat on its face. There are far more eloquent people who have far more intelligent things to say on the subject and I think I’ll let them handle the discussion.
However, I don’t find Peace, Love or Understanding so funny and I wish I lived in a world where people who felt this way were not ridiculed. Peace is a noble cause.
Perhaps I am a fool to think so. Perhaps I am a fool to want my children to grow up in a world that isn’t besieged by violence and hatred. If that is foolish, then so be it.
I’ll watch the war on TV. I’ll sincerely wish that our troops will come home safe. And I’ll also sincerely hope that no one dies at all. Isn’t that silly? That I don’t want to hear about people being blown up by anyone? Maybe I’ll just wait for the movie to come out. That way it will all be explained for me.
Oh well. I think I’ll go do some other foolish things now. Like writing letters about how I want clean air and water. Or maybe I’ll put some effort into getting a disease cured. Or, maybe I’ll do something on a small scale and buy a homeless guy lunch. That would be foolish, wouldn’t it? To let other people think I care about their welfare?
What I dread the most about this whole situation is that I’ll have to explain to my daughter why human beings go to war. I don’t know what I will say. Maybe someone will explain it to me. That would be nice. Apparently the world has been black and white for a long time, but I keep seeing all these other colors. I must be hallucinating.
Tomorrow I will come back and tell funny stories about my family. Things about how my family is happy and how much we love each other. And how we’re all foolish together.
Wednesday, March 12, 2003
Come Swish Around My Pretty Punk
Confessions of a Geek or Science Fiction Twin or whatever the hell I’m calling this thing these days is going on hiatus for a few days. I’m going to try to actually enjoy myself vicariously through the physical efforts of elite athletes. Either that, or I’ll consume enormous amounts of beer and chili. If you hear reports of birds falling dead out of the sky in Ohio, you’ll know the latter occurred.
I’m hoping this will act as a much needed relaxation trip for me. I’m starting to feel down, for reasons as yet unknown. There are a lot of things going on for the O’Briens. Most of them are ultimately good, but I feel it is my moral responsibility to shoulder all the anxiety for the family. So I fret and worry over everything.
If I were to write and autobiography at this moment, it would be entitled “Tales of Woe and Stomach Acid.” I don’t think it will be a big seller.
So, today I leave you with the lyrics of a song and a poem (I couldn’t pick one) whilst I recharge my batteries and hopefully return chipper, happy and lacking bitterness and worry. Of course, if I did that, I’d have to return as a different person.
The poem is by WB Yeats and is in honor of all you pseudo-Irish who will be soiling the good names of all of us real Irish on St. Patrick’s day by puking and pissing yourselves in public (odd, if you add an “e” to public it becomes “pub lice”, a condition you should avoid on Monday). The song seems to fit my mood. No deeper meaning. The lyrics are by Parsons and Turner set to a gorgeous melody written by none other than Charlie Chaplin.
A Drunken Man's Praise of Sobriety
W.B. Yeats
Come swish around, my pretty punk,
And keep me dancing still
That I may stay a sober man
Although I drink my fill.
Sobriety is a jewel
That I do much adore;
And therefore keep me dancing
Though drunkards lie and snore.
O mind your feet, O mind your feet,
Keep dancing like a wave,
And under every dancer
A dead man in his grave.
No ups and downs, my Pretty,
A mermaid, not a punk;
A drunkard is a dead man,
And all dead men are drunk.
Smile
Smile, though your heart is aching
Smile, even though it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky,
You'll get by
If you smile through your fear and sorrow
Smile, and maybe tomorrow
You'll see the sun come shining through, if you...
Light up your face with gladness
Hide every trace of sadness
Although a tear maybe ever so near
That is when you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use of crying?
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you just smile.
Discuss
I’m hoping this will act as a much needed relaxation trip for me. I’m starting to feel down, for reasons as yet unknown. There are a lot of things going on for the O’Briens. Most of them are ultimately good, but I feel it is my moral responsibility to shoulder all the anxiety for the family. So I fret and worry over everything.
If I were to write and autobiography at this moment, it would be entitled “Tales of Woe and Stomach Acid.” I don’t think it will be a big seller.
So, today I leave you with the lyrics of a song and a poem (I couldn’t pick one) whilst I recharge my batteries and hopefully return chipper, happy and lacking bitterness and worry. Of course, if I did that, I’d have to return as a different person.
The poem is by WB Yeats and is in honor of all you pseudo-Irish who will be soiling the good names of all of us real Irish on St. Patrick’s day by puking and pissing yourselves in public (odd, if you add an “e” to public it becomes “pub lice”, a condition you should avoid on Monday). The song seems to fit my mood. No deeper meaning. The lyrics are by Parsons and Turner set to a gorgeous melody written by none other than Charlie Chaplin.
A Drunken Man's Praise of Sobriety
W.B. Yeats
Come swish around, my pretty punk,
And keep me dancing still
That I may stay a sober man
Although I drink my fill.
Sobriety is a jewel
That I do much adore;
And therefore keep me dancing
Though drunkards lie and snore.
O mind your feet, O mind your feet,
Keep dancing like a wave,
And under every dancer
A dead man in his grave.
No ups and downs, my Pretty,
A mermaid, not a punk;
A drunkard is a dead man,
And all dead men are drunk.
Smile
Smile, though your heart is aching
Smile, even though it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky,
You'll get by
If you smile through your fear and sorrow
Smile, and maybe tomorrow
You'll see the sun come shining through, if you...
Light up your face with gladness
Hide every trace of sadness
Although a tear maybe ever so near
That is when you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use of crying?
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you just smile.
Discuss
Tuesday, March 11, 2003
Beavers and Ducks!
You may not realize it but . . . spring has sprung. Oh sure, the local weather man is threatening that there is a HUGE COLD AIR MASS heading our way and, in order to save ourselves WE MUST RUN FOR OUR LIVES.
Winter is always a short prison term as you sit inside, looking outside at the cold, dead world outside and you run to make a cup of hot chocolate laced with No-Doz. Everything is sleepy and tired and barren and boring.
There’s nothing to do in the winter that doesn’t involve a form of ice in your underpants or loss of circulation in your hands. No one cares about you either. You explain your misery, but they stare at you with a look that says, “Shut up. My ass cheeks are pink and raw from sliding down the ice. Do I look like I care about you?”
You’re all alone.
Children, however, seem to have some sort of magical chemical protection from certain types of cold. When I say certain types of cold, I mean:
--When playing in the snow.
--When you desperately want to go inside.
--After dark when they are supposed to be inside.
--When they are supposed to be doing their homework.
--When you’re standing out there watching them come back from the bus, and they take a detour through the bushes, to a pile of rocks, weaving in and out of parked cars, to climb a tree, to pick leaves out of their friend’s hair, to look over the pile of goose droppings and analyze what they have eaten, to throw rocks from the said pile at said pile of poo, etc. and on and on and on. Then, when she finally arrives at the door she looks at your icy corpse and says, “Were you calling me?”
But it works in reverse. It can be exactly 48 degrees, which is not cold, and you have things that you must do outside with the child. Such as, loading things in the trunk before going to grandma’s house. This makes her cold. As does:
--Walking ten feet from the car to the grocery store.
--Inside the shoe store.
--Inside the greenhouse at the botanical gardens.
--While sitting on top of the heating register while wearing eight wool sweaters, an elk hide, forty-two pairs of mittens, seven hats and one of those blankets they use for victims of shock.
--When she accidentally lights her clothes on fire while trying to mix two chemicals together to create a potion that causes lead to turn into gold.
Damn kids. They don’t make sense.
But spring has sprung. I have proof.
Outside my window, which was dead and barren yesterday, there are at least fifty Chimney Swifts flying around, arguing, fighting and I think making baby chimney swifts. The birds have returned and they are singing. Loud. And staring at me.
Holy crap they can open the door! They’re coming towards me! Wow they look mean. Quick, get help! Go get hel . . .
Discuss
Winter is always a short prison term as you sit inside, looking outside at the cold, dead world outside and you run to make a cup of hot chocolate laced with No-Doz. Everything is sleepy and tired and barren and boring.
There’s nothing to do in the winter that doesn’t involve a form of ice in your underpants or loss of circulation in your hands. No one cares about you either. You explain your misery, but they stare at you with a look that says, “Shut up. My ass cheeks are pink and raw from sliding down the ice. Do I look like I care about you?”
You’re all alone.
Children, however, seem to have some sort of magical chemical protection from certain types of cold. When I say certain types of cold, I mean:
--When playing in the snow.
--When you desperately want to go inside.
--After dark when they are supposed to be inside.
--When they are supposed to be doing their homework.
--When you’re standing out there watching them come back from the bus, and they take a detour through the bushes, to a pile of rocks, weaving in and out of parked cars, to climb a tree, to pick leaves out of their friend’s hair, to look over the pile of goose droppings and analyze what they have eaten, to throw rocks from the said pile at said pile of poo, etc. and on and on and on. Then, when she finally arrives at the door she looks at your icy corpse and says, “Were you calling me?”
But it works in reverse. It can be exactly 48 degrees, which is not cold, and you have things that you must do outside with the child. Such as, loading things in the trunk before going to grandma’s house. This makes her cold. As does:
--Walking ten feet from the car to the grocery store.
--Inside the shoe store.
--Inside the greenhouse at the botanical gardens.
--While sitting on top of the heating register while wearing eight wool sweaters, an elk hide, forty-two pairs of mittens, seven hats and one of those blankets they use for victims of shock.
--When she accidentally lights her clothes on fire while trying to mix two chemicals together to create a potion that causes lead to turn into gold.
Damn kids. They don’t make sense.
But spring has sprung. I have proof.
Outside my window, which was dead and barren yesterday, there are at least fifty Chimney Swifts flying around, arguing, fighting and I think making baby chimney swifts. The birds have returned and they are singing. Loud. And staring at me.
Holy crap they can open the door! They’re coming towards me! Wow they look mean. Quick, get help! Go get hel . . .
Discuss
Monday, March 10, 2003
Yay
Title field works. For the most part.
Now if this stupid email publishing would work, we'd be golden. And I want to be golden. I'll sell myself and buy a plasma screen TV.
Now if this stupid email publishing would work, we'd be golden. And I want to be golden. I'll sell myself and buy a plasma screen TV.
No Title Field?
See, now this is interesting. The title field isn't showing up. I'll have to fix that . . .
I'm Not Trying To Be Irritating
If you've dropped by and have seen things appear and disappear, that is my fault. I've been messing around with things and testing them out. I'm attemping to get new features to work (like the above title, which is a form field), including the ability to post via email. Once I do, I'll be the coolest kid on the block. Maybe even in the whole neighborhood. Perhaps in my congressional district.
I have a desperate desire to be cleverer than I’ve been lately. However, I haven’t been able to muster the cleverosity. Or is it the cleverioty. I don’t know. Sigh.
I think I have ennui. I hope I don’t die.
Listening to the Tiki Tones helps with the ennui. However, I'm afraid it also makes me want to don some baggies and hit the surf. Sadly, if I did that it might cause planes to crash because of my blinding white skin. I go out in the sun to take the blue out of my skin . . .
Damn Irish genes.
I think I have ennui. I hope I don’t die.
Listening to the Tiki Tones helps with the ennui. However, I'm afraid it also makes me want to don some baggies and hit the surf. Sadly, if I did that it might cause planes to crash because of my blinding white skin. I go out in the sun to take the blue out of my skin . . .
Damn Irish genes.
The old adage goes that you are what you eat. I could agree with that if, by the nature of my diet, I turned into a giant Twinkie. Since I have not, I will disagree with that adage. If that adage were true, to be honest, then I know a lot of people who must eat mule.
But I don’t think it’s true. I know plenty of people who eat junk food who are perfectly nice people. I know people who are Vegans who are complete assmonkeys. So being what you eat isn’t a good measure of your worth nor can you tell much about someone based on their consumption of Chicken Pesto and Evian. Well, except that they paid far too much for water.
Rather, I believe that you are what you listen to and that we can find out much more about you based on what CDs you have with you at your desk or in your car.
For example: You have Kenny G sitting on your front seat. Well, you know, you aren’t going to be considered for hippest cat of the year. But, odds are you already know this and you accept it because the CD is sitting on your seat. That makes you okay because you admit to your love of cheese. However, if you hid it and only listened to Kenny while you took a long bubble bath, then we’d need to talk.
Another example: You’re a forty year old man who listens to N’Sync. Well, then . . . You can change your email to pederast@prison.com.
The music you listen to and how you listen to it directly relates to who you are. People who are high energy and aggressive tend to like music that matches their mood. People who are highly stressed tend to enjoy listening to music that is either frantic or could easily listen to something that is calm and soothing.
However, your choice in music goes far beyond that. WHO you listen to is more important than you could think. If you listened to Norah Jones the week the CD came out, you would be cool. If you listen to her now because you discovered her on the Grammy’s . . . Not so much.
My daughter likes Avril Lavinge. She’s seven years old, so that’s okay. In fact, it works to her advantage because she’s flexing her proto-punk muscles instead of prepackaged teen pop. She’s digging the guitars instead of the drum machine.
So take a look around your desk or your car. What music is speaking for you?
Do you have a Ben Folds CD? Good for you! If it’s Whatever and Ever Amen, you get six points. But if it’s The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner, you get ten points.
The Beatles are good, unless it’s their latest Greatest Hits package. Granted, that still makes you rise in musical esteem. However, you’d double it by listening to Abbey Road.
Do you buy whatever is hot? Or do you get let latest “NOW” release? That’s not so good. It shows that you have no musical ambition or identity. Wherever the wave breaks on the beach, there you are.
Did you buy Pet Sounds? Was it because of “Wouldn’t it Be Nice” or because of “Caroline, No”?
Do you have a Randy Newman CD? Is it Little Criminals or Toy Story? It makes a difference in your musical esteem score.
If you have a Stereolab CD, that makes you cool. If you have The Strokes, you’re okay. If it’s Shakira, you have to wonder. If it’s the Wondermints, Stew or any other band that you’d have to work to find, then you win the game.
Music is highly personal, that’s very true. And you have the right to listen to whatever you want. Radio is highly impersonal. The songs are selected for you buy a committee who wants you to buy the CDs. Even classic rock and oldies are highly calculated mediums.
However, the more you work for your music, the better it will be. It’s just like anything else, if it’s worth doing, it’s worth working for.
So look at your desk. What does it say about you? Are you a musical pioneer? Or are you a musical drone? Do you find CDs you like based on experience? Or is it because there’s a song on the radio you can’t get out of your head?
Neither is wrong. But one yields better results. Work for your music and it will work for you.
Who are you? What CD are you? Today I am “Transient Random-Noise Bursts With Announcements” and “69 Love Songs”.
Discuss
But I don’t think it’s true. I know plenty of people who eat junk food who are perfectly nice people. I know people who are Vegans who are complete assmonkeys. So being what you eat isn’t a good measure of your worth nor can you tell much about someone based on their consumption of Chicken Pesto and Evian. Well, except that they paid far too much for water.
Rather, I believe that you are what you listen to and that we can find out much more about you based on what CDs you have with you at your desk or in your car.
For example: You have Kenny G sitting on your front seat. Well, you know, you aren’t going to be considered for hippest cat of the year. But, odds are you already know this and you accept it because the CD is sitting on your seat. That makes you okay because you admit to your love of cheese. However, if you hid it and only listened to Kenny while you took a long bubble bath, then we’d need to talk.
Another example: You’re a forty year old man who listens to N’Sync. Well, then . . . You can change your email to pederast@prison.com.
The music you listen to and how you listen to it directly relates to who you are. People who are high energy and aggressive tend to like music that matches their mood. People who are highly stressed tend to enjoy listening to music that is either frantic or could easily listen to something that is calm and soothing.
However, your choice in music goes far beyond that. WHO you listen to is more important than you could think. If you listened to Norah Jones the week the CD came out, you would be cool. If you listen to her now because you discovered her on the Grammy’s . . . Not so much.
My daughter likes Avril Lavinge. She’s seven years old, so that’s okay. In fact, it works to her advantage because she’s flexing her proto-punk muscles instead of prepackaged teen pop. She’s digging the guitars instead of the drum machine.
So take a look around your desk or your car. What music is speaking for you?
Do you have a Ben Folds CD? Good for you! If it’s Whatever and Ever Amen, you get six points. But if it’s The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner, you get ten points.
The Beatles are good, unless it’s their latest Greatest Hits package. Granted, that still makes you rise in musical esteem. However, you’d double it by listening to Abbey Road.
Do you buy whatever is hot? Or do you get let latest “NOW” release? That’s not so good. It shows that you have no musical ambition or identity. Wherever the wave breaks on the beach, there you are.
Did you buy Pet Sounds? Was it because of “Wouldn’t it Be Nice” or because of “Caroline, No”?
Do you have a Randy Newman CD? Is it Little Criminals or Toy Story? It makes a difference in your musical esteem score.
If you have a Stereolab CD, that makes you cool. If you have The Strokes, you’re okay. If it’s Shakira, you have to wonder. If it’s the Wondermints, Stew or any other band that you’d have to work to find, then you win the game.
Music is highly personal, that’s very true. And you have the right to listen to whatever you want. Radio is highly impersonal. The songs are selected for you buy a committee who wants you to buy the CDs. Even classic rock and oldies are highly calculated mediums.
However, the more you work for your music, the better it will be. It’s just like anything else, if it’s worth doing, it’s worth working for.
So look at your desk. What does it say about you? Are you a musical pioneer? Or are you a musical drone? Do you find CDs you like based on experience? Or is it because there’s a song on the radio you can’t get out of your head?
Neither is wrong. But one yields better results. Work for your music and it will work for you.
Who are you? What CD are you? Today I am “Transient Random-Noise Bursts With Announcements” and “69 Love Songs”.
Discuss
Friday, March 07, 2003
Are we at war yet? What time is it scheduled because I’m tired of ducking every time a goose flies over, thinking it’s a nuclear bomb laden drone.
The more I think about this war, the more I think we need to schedule these things better. I keep checking the TV Guide to see when it starts, but it isn’t listed. I could have sworn that the last war over there was listed. Right? It had its own timeslot, as I recall. What was it called again?
I’ve been following the coverage of the impending war with some disgust as of late. Every damn station has their own graphic, their own title their own theme music. As if they are all competing to come up with the very best version of the story. “You know, FoxNews’ war is good and everything, but it lacks the great underscoring that CNN has. Plus, they had that one scene with the panty raid and everything.”
It irritates me because who knows what implications this war will have on the world. Who knows what its outcome will be. And yet, there are some slimy bastards sitting in a backroom somewhere titling the damn thing. “Showdown Iraq”, “Saddam’s Last Day”, “Death, Violence and Destruction: Iraq”. These sniveling bastards are milking this for ratings, just as they did after the terrorist attacks.
Think back. Imagine if the news media that’s around today had covered World War II. Or should I call it: “March on Berlin” or “Showdown: Hitler”. Oh, but we can’t forget the other theater of war. “Die Yellow People” or “Face Off: South Pacific.”
No, back then we actually had writers covering the war from the inside. And I’m not talking about these people they have out there now. I mean REAL writers, who observed what went on around them and wrote from the soldier’s point of view. Real, honest, raw emotion.
Speaking of great writing, where are the novels that came out of the Gulf War Era? Where are the James Joneses and the Kurt Vonneguts and Joseph Hellers? Where are the Norman Mailers? Hell, we don’t even have a Tim O’Brien.
We’re losing out here. Our media saturation has caused the level of writing to decrease. I don’t mean from reporters. I’m talking about the people who were there. People who looked fear in the eye and confronted it. People who actually, believe it or not, had less information about what was going on that we did. Where are the writers? Have they been scared off by the Dateline profiles? Do they figure we don’t want to hear what they have to say? Do they think we’re tired of hearing?
Will war writing die with the men I mentioned above? War certainly won’t. But we’re losing a valuable perspective.
We’re losing the perspective of the men and women who saw what Fox and CNN can’t show us. They felt what we can’t feel on television.
Maybe they felt morally justified to be there. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe it destroyed their life. Maybe they lost everything. Maybe it gave them a greater respect for the military. Maybe it gave them less respect for the military.
We won’t know. Because the writers of this and the Gulf War generation aren’t writing. They aren’t telling us anything.
And if we can’t stand on the reports of those who experienced an event first hand, then we are doomed to repeat that event. Because, without those experiences we have learned nothing.
Discuss
The more I think about this war, the more I think we need to schedule these things better. I keep checking the TV Guide to see when it starts, but it isn’t listed. I could have sworn that the last war over there was listed. Right? It had its own timeslot, as I recall. What was it called again?
I’ve been following the coverage of the impending war with some disgust as of late. Every damn station has their own graphic, their own title their own theme music. As if they are all competing to come up with the very best version of the story. “You know, FoxNews’ war is good and everything, but it lacks the great underscoring that CNN has. Plus, they had that one scene with the panty raid and everything.”
It irritates me because who knows what implications this war will have on the world. Who knows what its outcome will be. And yet, there are some slimy bastards sitting in a backroom somewhere titling the damn thing. “Showdown Iraq”, “Saddam’s Last Day”, “Death, Violence and Destruction: Iraq”. These sniveling bastards are milking this for ratings, just as they did after the terrorist attacks.
Think back. Imagine if the news media that’s around today had covered World War II. Or should I call it: “March on Berlin” or “Showdown: Hitler”. Oh, but we can’t forget the other theater of war. “Die Yellow People” or “Face Off: South Pacific.”
No, back then we actually had writers covering the war from the inside. And I’m not talking about these people they have out there now. I mean REAL writers, who observed what went on around them and wrote from the soldier’s point of view. Real, honest, raw emotion.
Speaking of great writing, where are the novels that came out of the Gulf War Era? Where are the James Joneses and the Kurt Vonneguts and Joseph Hellers? Where are the Norman Mailers? Hell, we don’t even have a Tim O’Brien.
We’re losing out here. Our media saturation has caused the level of writing to decrease. I don’t mean from reporters. I’m talking about the people who were there. People who looked fear in the eye and confronted it. People who actually, believe it or not, had less information about what was going on that we did. Where are the writers? Have they been scared off by the Dateline profiles? Do they figure we don’t want to hear what they have to say? Do they think we’re tired of hearing?
Will war writing die with the men I mentioned above? War certainly won’t. But we’re losing a valuable perspective.
We’re losing the perspective of the men and women who saw what Fox and CNN can’t show us. They felt what we can’t feel on television.
Maybe they felt morally justified to be there. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe it destroyed their life. Maybe they lost everything. Maybe it gave them a greater respect for the military. Maybe it gave them less respect for the military.
We won’t know. Because the writers of this and the Gulf War generation aren’t writing. They aren’t telling us anything.
And if we can’t stand on the reports of those who experienced an event first hand, then we are doomed to repeat that event. Because, without those experiences we have learned nothing.
Discuss
Thursday, March 06, 2003
My archives are all messed up. I know this. All I have to say is, "oy".
I've been working on it all night long. I can't figure it out. In theory the template should be there. But it's not. So you get a white page. Why? Because te Gods of Blogger are all on heroin I guess.
Perhaps it will work itself out. Perhaps not. But in the meantime I go sleepy time now.
I've been working on it all night long. I can't figure it out. In theory the template should be there. But it's not. So you get a white page. Why? Because te Gods of Blogger are all on heroin I guess.
Perhaps it will work itself out. Perhaps not. But in the meantime I go sleepy time now.
Had the baby home again today and meetings all day long yesterday.
So, no time to post, really. Sorry.
I've been messing with things today, trying to make the site a little leaner and the communication between the blogger code and the asp page. I hope it works.
My blonde, blue-eyed daughter is currently singing a Negro spiritual that was popular during the Civil Rights Movement. I have no problem with that. It's her lack of soul that is bothering me. I think I'll start playing Otis Redding while she sleeps and see if she picks up a little of his mojo.
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa!
So, no time to post, really. Sorry.
I've been messing with things today, trying to make the site a little leaner and the communication between the blogger code and the asp page. I hope it works.
My blonde, blue-eyed daughter is currently singing a Negro spiritual that was popular during the Civil Rights Movement. I have no problem with that. It's her lack of soul that is bothering me. I think I'll start playing Otis Redding while she sleeps and see if she picks up a little of his mojo.
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa!
Tuesday, March 04, 2003
Some days are just good. You can’t deny their goodness. Every single moment is enjoyable. You feel at peace with yourself and everyone around you. Everything that occurs just adds to your sense of wonder in the world and you feel absolutely, unequivocally happy.
I had one of those days yesterday.
Keep in mind that I’ve been in pure stress mode since October. I’ve been working nearly non-stop. Now, that’s great news for my freelance business. However, it’s terrible news for my ability to relax. What’s worse, is one of the reasons I started freelancing was to allow myself the ability to be more available for parenting duties. But since October, a sick child or lack of a sitter sent me into convulsions of stress.
It’s been so bad at times that I’ve had nightmares where I see people who owe me material sitting around a pool, taking naps while I sip a champagne glass filled with my own stomach acid. However, to my credit, I’ve been handling the stress far better than I have in the past. When the statute of limitations runs out, I’ll explain what I’ve done in the past.
But yesterday. Yesterday was wonderful. My sitter was unable to watch the baby and I spent the entire day with her. Alone. Both of us healthy. It was fantastic.
We spent the morning watching The Wiggles. We danced and sang and wiggled till we could wiggle no more. After The Wiggles were over, we played Wiggles related games on the computer. She’d hear a snippet of one of their songs and she’d squeal with glee, shouting, “Mo’! Mo’! Mo’!” her finger pounding into her open palm, the sign for “more.”
We then went downstairs and I introduced her to the play kitchen and play food. She ate it up! We spent a full hour making donut-strawberry-potato-ice cream-brownie-chicken-stew and feeding it to her baby. She’d stand at the plastic stove, stirring her concoction. If you asked her about it, she’d put out her hand out in a cautionary gesture and say, “Ha! Ha!” This is the sign for “hot.” I was astounded at her ability to pick this up.
Later that morning we went to Target and picked up a new doll. She managed to find the only doll that seemed to be wearing the same outfit as her. Walking out of the store she smothered her new baby in kisses, with loud “Mwahs”. To say that she was the cutest damn being in the store is an understatement.
I was worried about naptime. She’s never been one who enjoyed being put down for a nap without a fight. Normally I have to chase her down with a blowgun and a tranquilizer dart. Or, I just wait until she keels over from exhaustion.
But yesterday after lunch, we sat in her rocking chair for a while, cuddling. After a few minutes I asked her, “Are you ready for your nap?” She hopped down from my lap, walked over to the crib and waited. I put her in and she handed me her cup of milk and gave me a hug. I told her I loved her and gave her a big kiss.
“Sweet,” I thought. “This is going to be a breeze!”
I started to walk out of the room and she let out a mournful wail so loud and piercing that a pod of humpback whales were set off course in the Pacific and accidentally beached themselves. She fell to her knees and looked at me pleadingly. I have to admit, we had such a fantastic morning that I wanted to scoop her up and head back out the door to play some more. But I steeled myself and left. I sat on my bed for ten minutes while she cried. And then . . . nothing.
Positive that she had somehow choked to death on her own, lonely, mournful tears, I went to check on her. There she was, sound asleep. Face down, with her little diapered butt sticking straight up in the air.
It’s strange, but it’s moments like that when you’re filled with this amazing love that washes over you.
When she woke up, we cuddled for a little bit until she saw the cat. She then picked hair out of the cat’s tail until the cat kindly asked her to stop.
We just had a wonderful, relaxing day. I was constantly amazed at how smart she’s getting. Her vocabulary seemed to increase three-fold yesterday (up to nine words now). At any given moment I would look at her sweet, cherubic (albeit slightly mischievous) face and feel an overwhelming desire to shout, “Damn it I love you you little weasel!”
Later in the evening the family did our evening Yoga ritual (which we’ve done three times now . . . three times I’ve done very poorly at). Gertrude would roll around on the floor with the rest of us; trying to mimic the poses we would contort ourselves into. To be honest, she did much better at it than I did.
And then it was bedtime. She gave me a hug and a great big “Mwah!” and was off to bed. Our perfect day seemingly over.
Until 11:30. When she woke up and was calling “Mama! Mama!” Normally she falls right back asleep. But tonight she was really upset about something. Mom said, “She’ll go back to sleep. Don’t worry.”
Then little Gertrude cheated. She broke the patterns, broke the rules and just plain damn got her way. In her litany of cries for “mama” she threw in one “Daadee!” She was in my arms in less than a second. I think I broke a land speed record in getting there. There was a sonic boom from the gap in the air I created when I bolted out of bed to get her.
And I gave her one last hug for the day. Knowing full well that she will never remember what a great day it was. How happy she made me during every moment. That I was filled with pride each and every second because this little, amazing being is MY daughter. Mine! How did I do that?
If someone asked me today, “What was the best day of your life” I would respond:
It was a Monday. Definitely a Monday.
Discuss
I had one of those days yesterday.
Keep in mind that I’ve been in pure stress mode since October. I’ve been working nearly non-stop. Now, that’s great news for my freelance business. However, it’s terrible news for my ability to relax. What’s worse, is one of the reasons I started freelancing was to allow myself the ability to be more available for parenting duties. But since October, a sick child or lack of a sitter sent me into convulsions of stress.
It’s been so bad at times that I’ve had nightmares where I see people who owe me material sitting around a pool, taking naps while I sip a champagne glass filled with my own stomach acid. However, to my credit, I’ve been handling the stress far better than I have in the past. When the statute of limitations runs out, I’ll explain what I’ve done in the past.
But yesterday. Yesterday was wonderful. My sitter was unable to watch the baby and I spent the entire day with her. Alone. Both of us healthy. It was fantastic.
We spent the morning watching The Wiggles. We danced and sang and wiggled till we could wiggle no more. After The Wiggles were over, we played Wiggles related games on the computer. She’d hear a snippet of one of their songs and she’d squeal with glee, shouting, “Mo’! Mo’! Mo’!” her finger pounding into her open palm, the sign for “more.”
We then went downstairs and I introduced her to the play kitchen and play food. She ate it up! We spent a full hour making donut-strawberry-potato-ice cream-brownie-chicken-stew and feeding it to her baby. She’d stand at the plastic stove, stirring her concoction. If you asked her about it, she’d put out her hand out in a cautionary gesture and say, “Ha! Ha!” This is the sign for “hot.” I was astounded at her ability to pick this up.
Later that morning we went to Target and picked up a new doll. She managed to find the only doll that seemed to be wearing the same outfit as her. Walking out of the store she smothered her new baby in kisses, with loud “Mwahs”. To say that she was the cutest damn being in the store is an understatement.
I was worried about naptime. She’s never been one who enjoyed being put down for a nap without a fight. Normally I have to chase her down with a blowgun and a tranquilizer dart. Or, I just wait until she keels over from exhaustion.
But yesterday after lunch, we sat in her rocking chair for a while, cuddling. After a few minutes I asked her, “Are you ready for your nap?” She hopped down from my lap, walked over to the crib and waited. I put her in and she handed me her cup of milk and gave me a hug. I told her I loved her and gave her a big kiss.
“Sweet,” I thought. “This is going to be a breeze!”
I started to walk out of the room and she let out a mournful wail so loud and piercing that a pod of humpback whales were set off course in the Pacific and accidentally beached themselves. She fell to her knees and looked at me pleadingly. I have to admit, we had such a fantastic morning that I wanted to scoop her up and head back out the door to play some more. But I steeled myself and left. I sat on my bed for ten minutes while she cried. And then . . . nothing.
Positive that she had somehow choked to death on her own, lonely, mournful tears, I went to check on her. There she was, sound asleep. Face down, with her little diapered butt sticking straight up in the air.
It’s strange, but it’s moments like that when you’re filled with this amazing love that washes over you.
When she woke up, we cuddled for a little bit until she saw the cat. She then picked hair out of the cat’s tail until the cat kindly asked her to stop.
We just had a wonderful, relaxing day. I was constantly amazed at how smart she’s getting. Her vocabulary seemed to increase three-fold yesterday (up to nine words now). At any given moment I would look at her sweet, cherubic (albeit slightly mischievous) face and feel an overwhelming desire to shout, “Damn it I love you you little weasel!”
Later in the evening the family did our evening Yoga ritual (which we’ve done three times now . . . three times I’ve done very poorly at). Gertrude would roll around on the floor with the rest of us; trying to mimic the poses we would contort ourselves into. To be honest, she did much better at it than I did.
And then it was bedtime. She gave me a hug and a great big “Mwah!” and was off to bed. Our perfect day seemingly over.
Until 11:30. When she woke up and was calling “Mama! Mama!” Normally she falls right back asleep. But tonight she was really upset about something. Mom said, “She’ll go back to sleep. Don’t worry.”
Then little Gertrude cheated. She broke the patterns, broke the rules and just plain damn got her way. In her litany of cries for “mama” she threw in one “Daadee!” She was in my arms in less than a second. I think I broke a land speed record in getting there. There was a sonic boom from the gap in the air I created when I bolted out of bed to get her.
And I gave her one last hug for the day. Knowing full well that she will never remember what a great day it was. How happy she made me during every moment. That I was filled with pride each and every second because this little, amazing being is MY daughter. Mine! How did I do that?
If someone asked me today, “What was the best day of your life” I would respond:
It was a Monday. Definitely a Monday.
Discuss
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